camping beneath the stars was the main way kosha spent their nights, preferring the open outdoors to a roof, an acquired taste that child them would scoff at, though one rarely could afford the frostbite that came with camping in snezhnaya. here in mondstadt, where the air stayed warm and the breeze cool, it was a blessing, something to be enjoyed. they had slept in far more dangerous places, ones where you had to awaken every few hours to make sure the fire burnt bright throughout the night.
they throw another twig into the fire, the pot on top of it beginning to bubble, scent of freshly killed boar and spices floating into the air. the night is quiet, cicadas singing in the distance, but their ears are far more trained than an average hunter.
and so they turn their head up, peering into the darkness.